


John Lennon And The Ways One Needs Paul McCartney

by ChutJeDors



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Era, I don't even know how to tag this, Lists, M/M, catch me throwing fluff in your general direction on a regular basis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: How does John Lennon need Paul McCartney?Howdoesn'the?





	John Lennon And The Ways One Needs Paul McCartney

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've been ill for like, a week, and as such been having plenty of time for writing. me and puck were talking about her [drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536136/chapters/36065199) and that sort of... inspired me. to save her from further embarrassement, i'll leave out the bit that was the inspiration.
> 
> anyway, after that this sort of wrote itself, and i wrote the whole thing in one day. it was funny (and weird) writing something else than a huge multichaptered project... yes, that's right! this is my first proper one-shot in like.............. ever...? (u dont count the smut) (someone out there knows my fics better than i do, probably)
> 
> it's also fairly different than anything i've done before, so i hope you like it!!! please tell me if you do, it would mean the world to me. (also if it doesn't work at all and is complete rubbish... you can tell that too,,)
> 
> a big ole thanks to [puck](http://imaginebeatles.tumblr.com/) for the usual support and ideas and stuff, and this fic is also partly dedicated to [maria](http://sunbeatle.tumblr.com/) who's having a meh time atm and who hopefully cheers up a bit from this! <33

**How does John Lennon need Paul McCartney?**

 

* * *

 

   **I. Musically**

“Oi, mate, what's that chord? The one ye just played?”

John peers closer, glasses stubbornly on his forehead instead of resting on his nose, and Paul stills his fingers on the guitar’s neck, holding his hand loosely in place.

“This one?” the boy asks and looks down at his fretboard, a strand of hair falling in the middle of his forehead from his grease-covered hair that is styled just like Elvis’.

“Yeah,” John frowns and tries to copy the chord. He squints at it and strums his own guitar once. The sound doesn't even come close to what Paul just produced, and he sighs as he starts calculating the position of Paul's fingers on the fretboard that is currently, in John's opinion, upside down and not at all _correct._ It's not how _normal_ people (and John, although far from normal) hold their guitars but how people like _Paul_ hold theirs… people that are brilliant and clever and annoyingly good-looking, and on top of that left-handed, too.

It takes him a while to get the chord come out clear and strong without any of his fingers on the way, and he listens to it with a fascinated mind, his chest filling with admiration towards the young lad sitting in front of him, cross-legged on John’s bed. John is pretty sure he himself would've never been able to find such a chord on his own.

“D’ye know what it is?” Paul asks, his voice full of interest, full of possibilities, and John knows they’ll be using this one in their next song.

“I have no clue,” he says. Hell, a year ago he didn’t even know a guitar chord from a banjo, so how does Paul expect him to know the name of this specific chord?

“It’s like… is this D? Is D at the base?”

John tries for a D, and discovers it is indeed the base for the chord. He also masterfully forgets where his fingers just were, and has to squint at Paul’s hand again while the lad waits patiently with a knowing, and undeniably a slightly fond grin.

“Let’s call it… Let’s call it the Nice D. ‘Cos it sounds nice,” Paul then suggests, smiling toothily.

“Oh, so it’s easily recognisable compared to the ‘Gear D’ and the ‘Slightly distorted D’,” John raises an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from his tongue, and Paul laughs, strumming the “Nice D”.

“I found it, I name it,” he says smugly, and John huffs, strums the Nice D on his own guitar. It does sound nice. Dammit, Paul.

“Okay,” John purses his lips, and no, he’s _definitely_ not pouting. “But I would’ve found it soon.”

“O’ course, Johnny” Paul says in a sing-a-song voice, still smug with a smirk adorning his lips. “O’ course.”

 

* * *

 

   **II. Platonically**

John sneezes, feeling snot fill his nose in an unpleasant, stifling way. He reaches for a tissue and sits upright on the bed to blow his nose. Mimi chooses that moment to stick her head in, demanding (not asking — for Mimi it’s always _demanding)_ to know whether John wants tea with honey or not.

John mutters something vague, not in the mood to talk with anyone. He’s been ill for days, and it doesn’t seem to be getting better. It sucks, and all he wants is for it to end… mainly because he’s damn _bored._ John has never been one to lay about for long periods of time, and here he is, unable to even play his guitar because the flu makes him just so _tired._

“Oh, also,” Mimi says then as an afterthought, “Paul is here. He’ll be up in a minute.”

That gets John’s attention, and indeed it doesn’t take but one minute before Paul is making himself comfortable at the foot of John’s bed, a guitar on his back, a cup of tea in his hands that he thrusts in John’s direction. John barely manages to catch it, and only raises a questioning eyebrow at the younger lad.

“Well, I thought you might need me,” Paul explains as his first words, accompanied with a wink, and John huffs, rolls his eyes.

“I’m not the one jus’ bargin’ in,” he says, but can’t help but feel that Paul really, _really_ knows how to read him, doesn’t he? Even all the way across the golf course he knows what John secretly wants, and gratitude fills him for Paul being here.

“Oh, well, I jus’ started to get so bored, with ye chained in ‘ere an’ all… an’ isn’t that what best friends are for? For keepin’ me entertained, like,” Paul says nonchalantly, smirking at him. And just like that, John is suddenly feeling so much better.

“Yeah,” he says and sips his tea. He’s already drank about a gallon of honey-sweetened tea and was ready to vomit it all out, but now he’s noticing less how sick he is of the taste, but more the fact that Paul apparently made the tea himself. It’s not as sweet as what Mimi makes, and although Paul always adds two sugars into his own tea, he knows John prefers his without.

“So why the guitar?” he asks, nodding towards the neck of the guitar that’s visible behind Paul’s shoulder. Paul glances at it, and his face lights up in that ridiculously endearing way of his.

“Oh, I started a song, an’ I thought if ye’d like to hear it?” Paul says enthusiastically and scrambles to turn the guitar around so that it’s safely tucked between his crossed legs.

He places his fingers on the fretboard… and then stills.

John raises an eyebrow, and then Paul cracks up.

“Ye know what? I forgot it,” he says, and chortles with abandon, and John joins in, his laughter soon interrupted by coughs. Paul, still laughing, leans forward and starts patting John’s back, but it only makes it worse — and John sneezes, right into Paul’s face.

They freeze for a moment, John’s body shaking with coughs that he’s trying to keep inside. And then Paul flops back on his arse, starts wiping his face with laughter bubbling out of his mouth again.

“Okay, okay, I asked for it,” he manages to heave between chuckles, and John snickers and coughs, reaching for a tissue.

“Well, I’ll be comin’ over next week,” he says, and Paul nods, his laughter never ceasing.

“Ye don’t ‘ave the patience to wait that long,” Paul says, and John guesses that no, he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

   **III. Desperately**

Paul’s phone rings, and he answers with a cheerful hello. He quickly sobers up, though, hears Cynthia’s soft voice on the other end of the line.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, because if it’s Cynthia calling, it means that John is more or less unable to do so.

“ _He’s quite drunk,”_ Cynthia sighs. _“I’m sorry, Paul, but I can’t keep Julian away from him and be there for him at the same time.”_

“Yeah,” Paul nods, already wondering where his coat might be. “Yeah, I get it, don’t worry. I’ll be there in a mo.”

“ _It’s… the anniversary of his uncle’s death, and…”_

“Oh,” Paul frowns. Now that explains a lot, and also tells how Paul must prepare himself for this upcoming “calm down a drunk, hysteric Lennon”, which is never an easy job, but an almost impossible one on days like this. Paul’s heart aches at the thought, and he swallows, his throat feeling somewhat tight. “Okay, yeah. I’ll be there. Just… tell ‘im I’m comin’, okay?”

“ _Thank you… I’m sure I could handle it, but, well, Julian—”_

“I get it,” Paul soothes Cynthia’s worries, although she sounds like she has her hands tightly on business. This isn’t a call out of desperation, but rather a well-planned move from an iron-willed mother. Paul recognises the tone from his own mum, and now, doesn’t that thought twinge a little bit again, just like always.

Sooner than later he’s knocking on John’s door, and Cynthia opens it with an apologetic smile. Julian, the precious little thing that Paul loves like his own son, grins at him widely from where he’s perched against her hip, and Paul exchanges customary cheek kisses to both of them before heading towards John’s music room.

He gathers John into his arms and holds him, no matter how the man tries to lash out at him. The more John struggles, the tighter Paul hugs, and finally John starts sobbing against his shoulder.

Paul is shocked to see just how drunk John actually is, and knows that at this point, there’s really nothing he can do to make the man feel better… except be there for him.

John ends up clutching at him and breathing deeply against his shoulder, and Paul pets his hair, kisses the top of his auburn moptop.

“Please don’t leave me too,” John slurs, and Paul sighs, shakes his head slightly.

“I won’t,” he says, not sure if John will ever believe him.

“Don’t ever.”

“I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t— I couldn’t live without you.”

“I know.”

“I _need_ you.”

“I need you, too.”

John holds onto him, desperately, and Paul pulls back to lift the man’s head before pressing his lips to John’s. There is a relieved sob that echoes deep in John’s chest, and Paul kisses him gently, lovingly, before their mouths part and foreheads meet with a soft thud, the touch grounding them both.

“I won’t leave you,” Paul promises firmly, eyes fixed on John’s face, and John’s eyelids fall closed as relief fills him, and Paul can’t help but smile.

God, but he loves the man.

 

* * *

 

   **IV. Sexually**

“C’mon,” John gasps, twists his hand in Paul’s hair. He isn’t sure what he’s asking for, what it is he needs, but he knows it’s _more._ “C’mon, mate.”

Paul chuckles against his throat, trails his lips down to where John’s shirt meets his collarbone. His strong hands press John tighter against the wardrobe, and John can’t really do anything else but writhe and beg, all other thoughts but the want burning in his blood having disappeared.

Paul breathes harshly through his nose as he bites down on John’s shoulder, emitting a desperate, loud wail from John, and the man starts fumbling with John’s trousers. Why are they still on, John wonders vaguely, pressing his head against the wardrobe. By all possible logic, they should’ve been gone _ages_ ago. He tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, mouth open as gasps escape his lungs in sharp outtakes, Paul never stopping his merciless attack at his skin.

It’s way too soon and way too late when Paul falls down to his knees, nuzzling at John’s painfully hard erection, before putting that sinfully talented mouth of his to the best use John can think of. He groans loudly as Paul swallows him down, and then the man is chuckling, the tremors it causes making John weak and hold onto the wardrobe for dear life.

“Shut up,” Paul laughs and John looks down at him, eyes fighting to stay open. Paul strokes at his length with a pitch black gaze drilled into John’s face, both amused and lustful. “They’ll hear us.”

“Let ‘em bloody hear,” John says, although he doesn’t really mean it, but it makes Paul smile widely before the man leans back in, parting his lips at the last moment before John’s head pushes in, drowning into that hot softness.

John presses one hand against his mouth to keep quiet, and one hand goes into Paul’s hair. Paul hums at the touch, his right hand spreading over John’s naked thigh, holding onto it so tightly John wonders if he’ll actually bruise. A bruise shaped like Paul McCartney’s palm would certainly be something worth bragging for.

“C’mon, Paul,” he says, pleading, the sound coming out as a half-sob, and Paul sucks harder, making his vision go blank.

“C’mon, _John,”_ Paul echoes with a twinkle in eye, his voice unusually raspy, like he’d been singing for the whole night, booze and cigarettes blocking his voice even further. John loves that sound. “Ye know I need it.”

John wants to retort back that from the two of them, Paul is not shaking against a bloody hotel room wardrobe with a fist in his mouth and a mouth on his cock, but the only sound that comes out is a desperate, agreeing noise, and Paul chuckles again before getting back to the task.

When it comes to that mouth, John never ceases to need _more._

 

* * *

 

   **V. Suspiciously**

“Hey Rings,” George catches a sight of Ringo and elbows his way over to the lad, glad to be able to escape the grabby hands that all want a piece of a Beatle for a moment. He hates parties like this, and would be more than ready to escape from the window like James Bond any minute. “Wanna escape from the window, James Bond-style?”

“You got no idea,” Ringo says, looking just as desperate as George feels like. “Someone asked me whether I’m Bob or Roger. Told ‘em I’m Hiffler an’ they didn’t even blink twice. Jus’ said that English names are so funny.”

“Christ,” George mutters, albeit very amused with Ringo’s new name. “Right, Hiffler, if we… Hang on, ye seen John ‘n Paul?” he glances around the room, not able to spot the terror twins anywhere. Now that he thinks about it, they have disappeared quite some time ago. Hmm. So they have perfected their inner James Bonds. George needs tips.

“Oh, yeah,” Ringo says, grins with a slightly confused note to his expression. “They went into the lavvy to, er, ‘write a quickie’.”

George stares at him for a moment, his eyebrows falling down into his customary frown. Now _that_ sounds highly suspicious for some reason.

“…Right. That better be a good song then.”

Ringo laughs.

 

* * *

 

   **VI. Ridiculously**

“This is stupid,” John says. “This is absolute madness.”

The wheel of his car doesn’t answer, and John is glad about that. The gates of Paul’s house tower down at him, and the usual fangirls that swarm in front of the house in daily basis are squealing at him.

“Paul in?” he asks dryly with a raised eyebrow once he’s rolled down the window, and the girls giggle at him. They’re the same ones as always, and as such no one comes forward to ask for an autograph this time.

“Yeah,” one of them says coyly, a blonde that Paul has surely fucked at least once. She’s clearly trying to make an impression, but John’s not fooled, nor is he in the mood for any fangirl meat. Nah, the exciting newness of fucking every available woman passed about two years ago. “Do you want me ring him?”

“That would be much appreciated, thanks,” John flashes her one of his signature grins that has the girls sighing, and one of them rushes to ring the bell. John waits patiently before he sees one of the curtains upstairs move slightly, a sure sign that Paul is checking whether it was just the fangirls ringing the bell, or someone more important, like John.

It doesn’t take long for Paul’s housekeeper to come open the gates for him, and John suppresses an urge to thumb his nose and jeer at the girls for him getting in while they are left standing outside. That wouldn’t be very adult-like, though, and of course Paul would let John in.

Of course. Even though sometimes, like now, it’s entirely unreasonable.

That’s what Paul voices as his greeting as well.

“What are you doin’ ‘ere?” he asks with laughter in his voice, hands crossed loosely over his chest as he waits for John to get rid of his coat. “I thought ye went home.”

It’s stupid — it’s entirely ridiculous… why _is_ John here?

“Yeah,” he mutters, starts heading towards the kitchen. Paul follows him, radiating cheerful and relaxed energy. It’s obvious that he’s in a good mood — at least one of them is, then. “Just felt like seeing you.”

“But we already saw at the studio.”

John doesn’t comment but starts making tea instead, and Paul hovers behind him like a shadow, peeking over his left shoulder, then his right, not saying anything but still being annoying as hell. And still his presence is exactly what John was looking for.

“John,” Paul then says, half-singing, trying to coax him into talking. John sighs, rests his palms against the kitchen counters.

“Just needed to see you,” he mutters, barely audible, but of course Paul catches it.

“That’s what I thought,” Paul hums, sounding satisfied but not mocking, and then he gently takes a hold of John’s arms and turns him around before pulling him into a tight hug.

John holds back just as tightly, buries his head into Paul’s shoulder, and breathes.

 

* * *

 

   **VII. Lovingly**

Paul’s breath comes out in soft exhales, his hands hugging the pillow as he sleeps peacefully on his stomach. John, on his side with his head supported against his hand, watches him with a small smile, wondering how it’s possible that the earth has been granted with something as gorgeous as the man sleeping in John’s bed.

And nevermind the earth — how is it that _John_ has been granted with someone like Paul?

The covers have slid down to Paul’s inner back, revealing his skin and the beautiful curve of his spine, and John can’t help but run his finger down the man’s back. Paul lets out a small sound at that, being slightly ticklish, but John doesn’t stop — his fingers slide under the cover, down to the roundness of Paul’s arse, and he lays his palm against the skin there, strokes with his thumb while following the man’s face closely.

Paul frowns, mumbles something, and swats John’s hand away in his sleep. John can’t help but burst into small giggles, and he leans forward, starts pestering Paul’s face with small kisses while snickering into his ear.

“For the love of God,” Paul mumbles, the sound coming out muffled against the pillow, his lips moving with some difficulty. _“Johnn,”_ he moans, tries to push John away. John laughs a bit more and presses his nose against Paul’s cheek, breathes in deeply as the man’s intoxicating scent fills his nostrils.

“Wakey wakey, eggs ‘n bakey,” he chuckles and Paul groans, trying to turn away from him.

“I swear, John, I’m gonna skin ye,” he mutters and John laughs some more, starts trailing soft kisses on Paul’s neck.

“What would happen to your favourite fucktoy then?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and Paul grumbles something vaguely. John doesn’t give up, though. Not before he’s got at least one kiss back.

He wraps his arms around Paul in a way that’s innocent enough, but it doesn’t take long for him to haul Paul on top of him, accompanied by a yelp from the lad who’s still clutching the pillow.

“C’mon! I need me sleep!” Paul calls and tries to elbow John on the side, but it’s not like John’s much of a match; he’s laughing way too much to hold onto Paul for much longer.

Paul straddles him soon enough, looking bleary-eyed and tired and annoyed and… just plain gorgeous. John stares up at him, small giggles escaping his mouth, and then Paul rolls his eyes and starts chuckling as well.

“You bastard,” he says, and John grins and winks, before lifting up a hand to cup Paul’s cheek. Paul’s morning stubble (so persistent it keeps reappearing even when he has shaved the night before) feels rough and perfect under his palm, and John softly strokes a thumb over it before slipping his hand into Paul’s neck.

He pulls Paul down into a kiss, lips spread into a smile. Paul huffs against his mouth and John sees him roll his eyes before they fall closed, and the man takes over the kiss, hands delving into John’s hair. They hold onto each other tightly, neither willing to let the other go, and when Paul lifts his head slightly and their eyes meet, John can’t help but smile so widely his cheeks hurt.

“Good mornin’,” he says softly, and Paul snorts, albeit looking way too affectionate to be really angry with him.

“Fuck off,” he says and leans back down to kiss John again, rolling them over soon afterwards. John smiles, and smiles, unable to stop, unable to let Paul go, and they hug each other tightly once they have exchanged enough kisses for the morning.

Scratch that. John will _never_ have had enough of those.

He kisses Paul again, and Paul giggles into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

   **VIII. Reluctantly**

_Ring._

_Ring._

“…Hello?”

“…”

“Hello??”

“ _How ye doin’?”_

Silence. Paul frowns. And sighs.

“Why’d you call, John?”

“ _Why, I jus’ wanted to hear how ye’re—”_

“Cut the crap,” Paul says, runs a hand through his hair. He glances back into the kitchen where Linda is feeding the baby Stella, Mary and Heather already having run off somewhere. “You plannin’ on another _How Do You Sleep,_ eh? Need inspiration?”

“ _Hey, I said I was sorry!”_

“Sure,” Paul feels tired, and starts pulling the receiver from his ear. It’s like Linda says; he shouldn’t give in, shouldn’t talk with John, because it can only end in tears. He just has to cut it off as soon as he can. He has to cut it off, because John’s cut him off.

“I’ll see ye around,” he says, because both know it’s a lie, and he almost manages to put the receiver down.

“ _Hang on!! Hang on, for Christ’s sake!!”_ he hears John yell, and sighs. He can’t help but let a smile tug at the corner of his lips, though. It’s just so… _John._

He lifts the receiver back to his ear and lets out an unimpressed sound. John is breathing rather heavily, and Paul can almost imagine him running a hand over his face, through his thick auburn hair.

“ _I just… I honestly just— I really just wanted to hear how ye’re doing,”_ the man says. _“It’s… I thought we were okay, after… after January.”_

January. Even thinking about that makes Paul’s heart break in half. He was in New York when news of a bloody massacre of Irish people by the English police broke through, and he and John sought each other out, sharing the shock of something like this happening to _their_ people.

Paul thought they’d be okay, too. And then in February John badmouthed _Ram_ completely in an interview (well, not completely, but, _still)_ and now they haven’t talked in a while. Because who could trust John Lennon?

“So did I,” he says, bitterness sweeping into his voice without him being unable to stop it. “Before that interview of yours.”

“… _Oh.”_

The silence stretches and Paul considers hanging up, but then John’s voice, slightly weak this time, pipes up again.

“… _It’s not… I mean, I sort of… You know I say stuff I don’t really mean.”_

“Do you, now?” Paul says, his voice icy, and John sighs on the other end of the line.

“ _Listen, Paul, I just… I’m sorry? I know I’m an arse.”_

Paul exhales deeply, shaking his head.

“It takes a bit more than that, John,” he says, and it feels like his heart is bleeding out to the floor.

“ _Come ‘ead, Paul! I’m trying to— ugh! I’m just trying to fix this—”_

“What exactly is there to fix?” Paul says, unable to keep his voice from breaking slightly. He supports his weight against the table where the phone is resting, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

He hears John let out a vague, almost terrified sound, and he wonders whether the man is on drugs. Again.

“ _Oh, I don’t know, maybe_ _ **us,**_ _or something??”_ he sounds irritated now, and Paul wants it to _end._ He should’ve hung up ages ago, right in the beginning when he recognised John’s voice. That’s what Linda’s told him to do — that’s what he _should_ do.

Give John one finger and he’ll take the whole arm.

“Why did you call, John?” he asks, feeling exhausted, tiredness sweeping into his voice. “Why’d you call?”

The silence lasts, and lasts, and Paul wonders whether the line has already been cut, when John’s voice comes up again, fragile and regretful, quiet, reluctant, but like he’s given in to something, and it’s like years of pain are wiped away with his hesitant sentence.

“… _I just needed to talk to you.”_

Paul stills, and sits down on the floor.

And he smiles, lets out a soft, understanding sound.

Who knows? Maybe they’ll be okay.

 

* * *

 

So, how does John Lennon need Paul McCartney?

How _doesn’t_ he?

**Author's Note:**

> !!! I hope you liked it!!! please leave a comment if you did  maybe the power of well-wishing comments would make me get well sooner...... god i hate this flu
> 
> as always, you can also drop a message me on my [tumblr](http://chut-je-dors.tumblr.com)! also, if you wanna see ~~bad~~ GOOD ENOUGH fanart of our boiys here's my [art](https://trash-by-cjd.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
